


Drowning In You, Drowning In Us

by sonicsora



Category: Brütal Legend
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attacks, Betrayal, Character Death, Dubious Morality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Romance, Undead, War, War related PTSD, heel turn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2019-09-24 16:44:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17104319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonicsora/pseuds/sonicsora
Summary: Left for dead by Ironheade after they've fled a battle, Kill Master is taken in by the Doom and nursed back to health. He finds himself slowly warming to the undead, taken under their collective wing. New friendships blossom and he finds himself a part of a faction he never expected to.He finds himself warming just as equally to the Doom's leaders, Ophelia, the woman who controls the sea itself and her battle-hardened general, Crowley.





	1. A candle casting a faint glow

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Dream Went On Forever (One Single Static Frame)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16502726) by [callmedok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmedok/pseuds/callmedok). 



> Blame Owl for this. That dang hoot man. I've included a link to the fic he's been working on in the same universe.
> 
> We've kinda been mutually egging each other on for this AU.

The first thing he’s really aware of when he wakes up is pain. Pain radiates up through his arm, down through his leg, across the expanse of his chest. His mind swims as he tries to suck in a short breath, his vision blurred behind his smashed sunglasses. Breathing _hurts_. Kill Master can only cough, bodily shivering as his coughing sends agony shooting through him. Every breath, every move hurts. Everything hurts and he finds himself gritting his teeth against it. 

“F-fuck.” He breaths out, the inside of his mouth tastes like copper. 

He realizes he’s very _alone_. The silence hangs heavily in the misty air. He can barely feel the chill at this point. 

He’s sprawled out in mud, the wreckage of his bike a few feet away from him. It had been burning earlier given the smell, but long since gone out. He twists to try and move so he can look at his poor bike- only to cry out. 

The hand he can move flies out to touch his ribs. “Shit-“ He can tell from tentative touch alone, he’s broken two ribs, bruised a few others. He runs his fingers along his other arm, only able to guess from touch he’s dislocated a bone whilst another is clearly broken. He shifts, swearing again when he realizes he’s not going anywhere. He sinks back into his spot in the mud, staring up at what he can see of the sky through the fog. 

He squeezes his eyes closed, trying to steady himself and only managing to tear up in the process. The silence meant more than a few things. The battle had ended, Ironheade had left. He was truly alone. Driven off of a ledge, crashed into a ravine. 

Was this… was this how he was going to die? He had escaped these lands, only to find himself dying like everyone else in the first rebellion hand. He would die alone lain in mud, in desperate, and desolate.

“Seems m’taking after you Thaddeus, Emilia.” He laughs almost bitterly, tears making his hazy vision worse. “Didn’t think I’d end up here…” 

The shift of dirt nearby makes Kill Master go still. Something was coming over. He mentally cursed himself for making so much damn noise. Something slinks closer on uneven footing. Kill Master wishes he could move, but trying to sit up is a fruitless endeavor. Every move just makes his head pound and his body throb. 

Its one of those… walking heads. Horror settles low in his gut as the head walks on hair tendrils over to him. The head’s eyes make eye contact with his own. He’s seen what these things can do on the battlefield. 

He expects a tendril to shoot out and throw him around. Instead the creatures eyes widen, shock settles on those fine features as it hurries over. A hairy tendril raises, Kill Master feels himself tense up in preparation only to feel the air tendril brush against his forehead gently. 

The head clicks at him, grinding teeth and making noises that make the bassist want to laugh. God, the undead head sounds like his spiders. He can almost make out... something there.

It clicks at him curiously, tilting somewhat to the side. 

“I must be dreaming…” He exhales, laughing a little and regretting it almost instantly. “Fuck.” 

The pain only grows worse as he coughs into his good hand. His head lulls back, feeling heavy as he realizes he can’t do much against… whatever this is. He couldn’t defend himself even if he tried. 

The head makes soft chittering noises. The noises only get louder as he finds himself closing his eyes and unable to open them again. By the time he wakes up he’s spread out on a cold stone slab of rock draped in old tattered cloths. A blanket has been haphazardly settled over him, clearly carefully tucked around his body. He realizes his arm has been carefully held in place by a splint. 

“Are you sure he’ll be warm enough?” The Bride sounds anxious as she wrings her hands together, nervously biting at her bottom lip. “Should we get more blankets?” 

“Not- really?” The Grave Digger answers honestly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can’t really feel temperature, so I dunno if he’s gonna be like… cold or not?” 

The head, the same one from before chitters loudly. 

Kill Master places his good hand against his face tiredly. He must be dreaming while he’s dying. He just closes his eyes again, wondering when he’s going to finally die and be done with all of this. 

\---- 

Kill Master is convinced he’s having a long standing hallucination. 

He finds himself drifting in and out of consciousness, always re-awakening to the undead huddled near him. They pepper him with questions, check over him and fuss in a way only solidifies his assumption he’s hallucinating.The stone slab has been replaced with softer loose fabrics and animal furs. He’s been tucked out of the chilly weather completely. 

Grave Digger’s carefully bring him water, Bride’s offer berries crushed into a mush he can actually eat. Those walking heads march around, one in particular always seems to be nearby chittering at him. His head swims from pain, sleep preferable to being awake most days. Even if the whole hallucination thing is funny in a sick sort of way. The undead wouldn’t _really_ give a shit, he knew that much. Ophelia put them together to wipe out Ironheade. 

If its a hallucination, doesn’t hurt to offer them some advice. 

“Gotta tighten the binding’s love.” He manages tiredly to a Bride fussing over his arm. Her touch has been shockingly gentle and observant. He has to wonder if she could have been a healer, hallucination or not. “It’s too loose now.” 

“Oh!” The bride breaths out in surprise, the gusty breath making her thin veil flutter. He can almost see her face for a moment. “How should I-?” 

“You wind it like...” He makes a vague motion with his good hand, eventually making it easier to understand when the undead woman stares at him blankly. Hallucination or not, he might as well be thorough. “You wanna be sure it’s not loose, if the skin changed color it’s too tight. Gotta... strike a good balance you know.” 

“Oooh.” She places a hand under that gauzy veil against her mouth, thinking. It drops away as she speaks again. A voice reedy and hollow. “Thank you, I’ll be sure to make that tighter for you!” 

He nods blearily, head lulling back. “Thanks, doll.” She giggles at the use of a pet name, but he doesn’t think about it much more, dropping off back to sleep. 

When he awakens again, he finds the bride has followed his advice. All the bindings on his broken bones have been tightened sufficiently. A cold compress has been lain against his forehead, a water pitcher on a old fine wooden table next to his ‘bed’. 

He can feel the chill of the Bride before he sees her. She’s seated on an old rotting armchair. The plush fabric has rotted away in places. Her ankles are crossed over each other in a odd way of sitting Kill Master can’t quite place. The walking head is dozing next to The Bride on an equally rotted ottoman. The bride’s hand occasionally drops down to stroke the sleeping head. 

The Bride works on a project in her lap, he realizes its a cross stitch of some kind. He finds himself watching her hands, in death they do not shake as she handles the thin needle. Her movements are shockingly precise and easy. He has to wonder if muscle memory carries even in death.

He realizes her veil has been tucked up and out of her way, revealing her blue face. He finds some mild surprise at the skull face paint. He wasn’t quite sure _what_ he expected, but face paint startles him somewhat. The white chalky paint obscures the way the tip of her nose has rotted off, makes the hallowed look of her eyes less intense. Her wild looking hair has been swept off to the side, braided away from her face to some extent. He can pick out highlights of white in the dark vibrant blue hair. 

She looks up after a moment, her lips curling into a smile. “Ah! Good evening!” The warmth in her face makes him feel confused. She gently finishes the stitch she’s on, before setting her project aside to rise. 

“Are you hungry? Janet was telling me humans need more than berries.” She talks animatedly and easily, leaving Kill Master just idly laying back wondering what was his brain trying to tell him.

\--- 

It takes a week of being more awake than asleep for him to realize this is decidedly not a hallucination. Actual food and regular water along with the near constant care means he’s actually awake. 

Realistically he should be panicking, trying to escape. 

But when he wakes up to find Janet marching around, he ends up unable to do much but hold conversation with the head. She behaves enough like one of the older ornery spiders he can’t seem to be disgusted by her in the way he was when he first saw Ophelia’s army. 

He half expects her to nip in annoyance just as the spiders did when he displeased them. She rolls her eyes at him and ruffles up, stomping over to chitter at him loudly when she disagrees with a point he’s making. He just has to laugh at it, growing fonder than he should. 

Janet’s eyes are full of interest and curiosity when he speaks. She reacts to him. She understands him. He expected to see death reflected in that gaze, an empty veneer of an empty husk. Not see amusement, or fondness. He learns Janet is a character through and through, so alive in a way he can’t deny her. 

The actual interest is partially what keeps him here. 

Just as much as the realization Ironheade had never come searching for him. Even in the wreck of the last damned rebellion he knew bodies were searched for to lay to rest. 

Yet. 

They left him. _They left him_. 

He can only guess they’ve opted to consider him dead than search for a body. The thought always leaves a sour taste in the back of his throat. 

He tries not to think on it. Not when he had undead marching around the makeshift camp they’ve made for him. It’s a ramshackle set up, but one made from care. He’s shielded from the gloomy weather quite well. 

He soon learns the Bride’s name is Kassandra. The name feels fitting in a way he can’t quite place. 

Kassandra and Janet tend to be the ones around the most. Samson is a grave digger who is around often, usually bringing in animals he’s killed to actively feed Kill Master. Samson is a gangly wisp of a young man, black hair obscuring most of his face on one side. He speaks in soft hushed tones and stutters when anxious. He asks the most questions, one visible eye wide and bright with a genuine want to learn. 

Kill Master half feels like he’s teaching a young acolyte about life all over again. Mixed with Janet’s chittering which he’s starting to fully understand by this point and Kassandra’s occasional surprising barb of sarcasm, he’s getting... comfortable. He shouldn't let himself relax. He shouldn't, yet, he does.

He listens to Samson and Kassandra idly argue about food preparation before he has to chime in. Janet chitters loudly as well with her own opinions. He finds humor in watching the group interact. He finds himself a part of them. 

Kill Master loses track of how much time he spends with them. All he knows is he’s able to walk somewhat and move his arm smoothly again. His ribs don’t ache as intensely. He knows ribs are slower to heal in a way. 

He’s walking sooner than he expects to under their care. He realizes a crutch has been carefully carved out of wood by hand. He pictures Kassandra or Samson whittling wood down by hand into the shape he described to them.

It leaves a lump in his throat and his eyes a little wet.

\---

Kassandra stumbles into camp, her veil thrown back in a hurry as she’s wild eyed and panicky. “Oh nonono-” Kill Master barely has time to really sit up properly before she’s trying to throw a blanket over him. 

“Oi- what are you?!” He flounders against the blankets in open confusion and irritation.

“Shhh, the queen! I need to hide you.” She shoves a pillow over his head haphazardly. Mention of Ophelia makes his blood run cold. He tries to grab a blanket as well, even if the plan is stupid, what else can he do? He’s three blankets deep when Kassandra suddenly stops. 

“Kassandra.” Ophelia’s voice is familiar as it is alien. “You don’t need to hide him.” He lowers the blanket awkwardly at the sound of her approach. “Janet told me what was going on.” 

Actually seeing Ophelia up close is worlds different than from the battle field. She strikes a cutting figure in the black inky dress that clings to the curves of her body. Her dark hair bounces with her steps. Her blue skin practically glows in the morning fog. 

The Bride hesitates, “My lady, I promise-” She hurriedly places herself between Ophelia and Kill Master, clearly a little worried. “We mean no harm. I couldn’t just let this poor man die.” 

Ophelia waves a hand gently, dismissing her worries. “Kassandra. I’m not here to hurt him. I wanted to see just who you found for myself.” Her lips curl into an amused smile. Kassandra seems to relax due to the smile, tension dropping out of her shoulders. The healer realizes the smile itself is mostly due to being half buried under blankets more than anything else. 

“Kill Master, nice to see you’re alive.”

He swallows, awkwardly finding his voice again. He sits up properly now, making most of the blankets flop somewhat aside. “S’...nice to be alive.” 

“I was wondering what had my warrior’s gossiping so much.” She taps her lip with an index finger. “Seems like the cause is a living man of their very own.” 

He narrows his eyes somewhat, “I ain’t anyone’s pet.” 

“I know you aren’t, but you are a novelty in a way.” She tucks some loose hair behind her ear. “How are you feeling?” 

The genuineness of the question makes the man open and close his mouth. He feels like he’s losing his mind. Last time he saw Ophelia she was viciously attacking Eddie. He remembers the two going at each other, Ophelia out for blood whilst Eddie taunted her. “Better.” 

“Good.” She eyes him for a long moment. She finally glances back to Kassandra, “Could I have a moment alone with him?”

Kassandra hesitates but does a polite curtsy. “Of course my Queen.” 

“I won’t hurt him, I promise.” 

Now Kassandra smiles in turn, “Thank you, thank you-” Ophelia waves off her thanks, shooing the Bride away. Her expression is fond. 

Kill Master can only feel himself mentally compare that smile to Emilia. Ophelia looks so much like her mother at times. It leaves a dull ache in his chest he can’t quite be rid of. 

Ophelia is all business when she turns back to him. “Now here come the harder questions.” She tilts her head, taking in his features calculatedly. “What happened? Normally you would be with Ironheade by now. Not here.” 

Her words make him openly wince. He sucks in a breath, “I, it was during the last fight. I lost control of my bike, I was swerving out of the way of someone just- standing around. I couldn’t correct my bike's path in time.” Saying it aloud makes his words acidic and bitter. “I crashed and... the son of a bitch saw me go down.” 

“Didn’t he call for help?” Ophelia questions, her tone fairly neutral even with the topic at hand. It almost nice, to have someone to say this to. 

“No, I saw him- he made fucking eye contact with me no less and- ran.” His good hand closes into a fist at his side. He remembers the man's face, the way his eyes widened before the Headbanger ran off. “Then I- passed out.” 

“Then Janet found you.” Ophelia’s expression is thoughtful, a little distant as she speaks. “You weren’t even that far from their stage side of the battlefield. I saw the wreckage for myself today.” 

Kill Master finds himself swearing a little, anger settling low in his gut. “Fuck. It was- wasn’t it?” They had left him. Left him to die. That was how much he mattered to Ironheade apparently. Useful for a certain amount of time before being tossed aside when his purpose was fulfilled. 

“You certainly weren’t alone out there. I found quite a few bodies left to rot. I doubt that helps, but- Ironheade left in a hurry it seems.” He can see the truth in her face alone and it makes him regret looking up at her.

That only proves to anger him further, “ _ **Fuck**_.” 

Riggnarok wouldn’t have done this shit. Emilia and Thaddeus wouldn’t have done this shit. No one was forgotten. Even in the worst battles, they’d find a way to take back the fallen for burial or pyre. 

He’s surprised when her hand gently settles against his shoulder. Sympathy from Ophelia feels strange and surreal. He barely knows the woman, but he knows her wrath from battle more than gentleness. 

“I’m sorry.” 

The apology leaves him wordless for a moment. He never expected to hear that from Ophelia. “Ain’t you’re fault.” 

“I know it isn’t. Doesn’t make it any less terrible.” She states matter of factly, leaving no room for argument. He's almost thankful of that much. No back and forth of sympathy. “Take your time to heal, we’ll talk more later.” She squeezes his shoulder before moving away from where he's seated. 

As she disappears into the morning fog, she only leaves Kill Master with more questions than answers. The healer only find vague solace in the fact she gave him something to think over.

\---

By the time he can walk well enough on his own he is lead by Kassandra, Samson and Janet down to where he was originally found. The ambivalence of where he stands with Ophelia leaves him feeling awkward and unsure of what he’s going to do, but he’ll take a field trip over staying in ‘bed’. 

Seeing the emptied battlefield is odd. Both stages are long gone and the fan geysers glow faintly in the fog. He picks out bodies of Ironheade warriors as he walks around. At best the Doom seemingly have thrown blankets over the fallen for now. Flowers decorate the edges of the blankets. The fact they haven’t just pitched them into the sea confuses the bassist. He isn’t sure what to feel about the dead respecting each other more than the living does. 

He has to lean against Kassandra and Samson as Janet takes the lead down the hill towards his bike. He mutters a few choice swears under his breath when his ribs ache in a particular way. 

The sight of his mulched bike and bass makes his stomach twist. Once he’s steady on his own two feet, Samson and Kassandra finally let him be. 

Samson tromps over carefully to nudge the bike over, using his shovel to poke at it haphazardly. Kassandra at his heels to keep the young man from doing anything stupid. “Fuck.” Slides from Kill Master's mouth before he can catch it. His poor fucking bike. He can feel their gazes on him. He doesn't want to see the sympathy or concern, so he does his best to meet anyones eyes.

Janet chitters back at him, grinding and clicking her teeth. 

“I ain’t about to ask Ophelia for a new bike or bass.” He throws back tiredly, scrubbing at his face with a free hand. “I don’t belong here-”

Not that he really belonged with Ironheade either at this point.

“I don’t really belong anywhere.” He finishes. 

"Your heart lay where you choose to throw it!" Kassandra offers brightly, her smile is something that still catches the healer off guard at points. "We'd be happy to catch it." 

The sentiment is baffling, but it earns a dry laugh from the healer. He lets his hand linger against his face as he stares down at the wreckage wanting to avoid meeting any of their eyes. "I'll... keep that in mind."


	2. You and I see eye to eye

Ophelia ends up being an elusive figure thereafter. He hears quite a bit about her from Kassandra, Samson and Janet, but he doesn’t see her again after their initial meeting. The Doom Queen apparently did plan on letting him be for now. He hadn’t quite expected mercy out of a war based solely on getting even. 

He isn’t quite sure what he thinks about her just yet. To be frank, he barely knows her. He's met her a few times, exchanged a few words, but never spoken with her at length.

Her whole relationship with Eddie dissolving and the sea being reopened just makes everything feel so much worse. The idle rumors of her working with the demon emperor remain unresolved but speculated upon. Only a few Razor Girls deny this fact even now. Before all of this, he had thought the lot of them were naive at best.

Kill Master has to admit he’s avoiding thinking about it at all. 

Illusive or not, Ophelia has apparently given her vague approval for her people to approach him, which leads to more Doom appearing over the course of the next few days. Doom members he doesn’t recognize. 

All of seem to have them take the Queen’s word with gusto. It means Kill Master ends surrounded by curious undead arriving at strange hours, most want to talk, others barring items. The various conversations range from odd, funny and mildly unexpected.

“A specific flower only blooms under a full moon, after a great bird has cried out-”

“You’re one of those posers? Is it true was Our Beloved Queen was scorned by the meat lug of a man leading your faction?”

“Earl Grey tea is a simpletons tea!” 

“If spiders can weave bass strings, can other bugs create other types of string?” 

“A good shovel requires a strong wood, a strong piece of metal meant for piercing the earth itself!” 

It is also how he ends up with an assortment of odd gifts building up around his ‘camp’. The gifts he ends up accepting belong to the first few visitors that streamed in upon Ophelia’s approval.

A tall red candle he cannot blow out lives on the table by his bed. The wind has little luck in sputtering it out. He remembers a hunched over Rat Gut who gave it to him insisting old magic would never die. 

A leather bound book of pressed flowers lain into its cover, when he flips through the pages he finds drawings of spiders in the corners and an old quill tucked in a back pocket of the book. A shy Grave Digger seemingly made it for him, the stained fingertips point to the fact each immaculate spider was drawn by the young man himself. 

A old ring with runes carved into the metal which has turned green from age. When he brushes his thumb along the green parts, it doesn’t smear on the pad of his thumb. A bride speaks in hushed tones of a man she loved, long since lost, placing the ring in his palm. Her breath smelled distinctly of rotting leaves mixed with dirt. Her smile is empty of teeth from what he can see around the veil. 

There are more gifts of course, but Kassandra puts her foot down. She shoos away any other gift givers with a stern word or prick of her needle. Kill Master finds himself laughing and wincing as his ribs protest.

“You’d think they’d never seen a living man before! Pshaw.” She shakes out her skirts in displeasure. Her gloved hands move to tuck her veil back in place. “At this rate, we’re never going to win this war. Everyone is so distractible these days!” 

Mention of the war makes his mouth snap shut awkwardly. He goes silent, just watching as Kassandra bustled around the campsite. Agile quick fingers shift through blankets, beginning to fold them with more precision than he expects. Even now it feels odd to see the undead move so easily. 

She’s folded three blankets by the time he finds his voice. “Has- there been any more fights?” 

“Not really no.” Kassandra misses his hesitation, starting on the next blanket. “They’ve run off! It seems we’ve trounced them for now.” 

“Hm.” He scratches at his cheek, at loss of what to actively say. “I had thought...” His mind turns over what this could mean. What would Ironheade be doing? Recouping? Planning a new attack? He can’t imagine why they aren’t pushing back. 

Kassandra’s gaze settles on him now, dark eyes standing out in a sharp contrast to the face paint she wears. “Are you worried what they’ll say if they see you with us?” 

Her words startle a wince out of the bassist, “No, of course not-” Of course he did, not that he realized this until she spoke it aloud. Even then, it feels like he’s been struck. 

“It’s fine.” She finishes folding the blanket in her grasp. Her gaze drops back to what she’s been doing. “We were only enemies before this. I’d be surprised if the thought hadn’t crossed your mind.” 

Kill Master finds himself at loss of what to say, quiet and awkwardly avoiding looking at Kassandra. He stares down at his own boots, half wondering what the fuck he’s even doing here. 

“Remember what I said.” Her voice makes him look up once again, she tucks a loose strand of hair behind an half rotted off ear. “We’d be happy to catch your heart.” She offers him a slim smile before turning away, she picks up her set aside parasol walking off into the fog. 

He almost wants to call out to her, but finds himself stuck in silence. He settles back down onto the bed, staring out at the fog. His mouth feels dry and he can't find much to say. The best he can do is lean against his crutch. 

When Kassandra returns, she acts as she always does. He decides not to say much about their conversation. Kill Master himself isn't quite sure what he can say. He's mildly relived when Janet and Samson return from some patrol, both talking at length about nothing all that interesting.

Their voices are at least a relief against the uncertainty brewing in his gut.

\--- 

With mobility means he has the actual means to get the fuck around. The crutch offers him an easier manner of walking through the strange encampment of doom land. The dry ice mines still turn him around considerably. 

It’s how he ends up bumbling past a few fan geysers deeper into Doom territory. He eventually sticks to following the rusted abandoned metal tracks lain in the grounds. Lanterns sway in darkness, glowing faintly. He makes a point to keep an eye out for the lanterns for some idea of where he is. 

The fog doesn’t clear as much as part enough he can see ahead of himself enough to keep on walking. 

The bassist finds himself coming to a stop after he gets down most of a steeper part of of the land, squinting through the fog. He’s nearly found himself where the Drowning Doom’s stage stood before. 

It takes him a moment to realize Ophelia is out in the fog. She stands by a fan geyser plucking at her guitar strings. He can hear her voice steadily build and grow as she sings. It takes him a moment to recognize the song. 

He staggers back, feeling his heart ache. 

_Emilia’s hands skim over his shoulder as she starts to sing, her voice gentle and playful as she circles around the healers gathering by the fire pit. Lem has found himself settled amongst their lot watching Emilia._

_Her clothes are caked with dirt, blood dried on her skin. She like everyone else is bone tired from the last skirmish._

_Her husband snorted tiredly, resting his hand against his chin. His dark eyes are half lidded. “Really, moon?”_

_“Oh my sun! Oh my brightest star!” She laughs, dark hair shaken out behind her head. “How can I not sing? We’ve come so far!”_

_“Plenty of reasons.” Thaddeus chuckles, he looks to Lem. His smirk is playful. “If you’re gonna sing, keep it clean, we got a kid here.” He jerks his thumb in Lem’s direction casually._

_The fourteen year old bristles, turning a little red under the hat that is far too big for him. He’s yet to grow into his father’s hat. “Hey!”_

_“When you’re older, you’ll hear other songs.” She teases, patting his back gently. She picks up on her song after a moment, dragging others who know it into singing with her. A tired chorus of warriors gathered tightly around a small fire._

He leans into his crutch, sucking in a breath between his teeth. He manages to stagger back the way he came trying to focus on his breathing opposed to the familiar song.

He missteps on some loose dirt in his hurry to leave, which only leads to him falling onto the ground with an audible pained noise. The hard landing hurts his still delicate ribs. He clutches at his chest, wheezing. His crutch bounces out of his reach.

He curls tightly into himself, staring out at the greying dirt underfoot, unable to slow down his breathing. Laying on the ground in the fog makes his heart race. 

The pain combined with the strange panicky feeling in his chest makes the bassist lose focus. 

His mind can’t settle on one thought as his ribs ache and his heart hammers against his ribs. He starts shaking and is unable to stop himself. 

_”Lem!” Work worn hands grabbed his own, “You need to get up.”_

_He sobs into his arm, shivering. His whole body thrums with pain as he tries to sit up with no success. Emilia’s voice is gentle but urgent, “Lem, sweetheart, you need to get up. You can’t stay here.” She squeezes his hand firmly now._

_He can distantly hear Thaddeus shout in the background, arguing with Riggnarok. People are screaming. He can hear demons in the distance and people falling to their attacks._

_“Lem- lets get you up.”_

A hand squeezes his own, breath cool against his skin as he slowly comes back to himself. 

“Shhh.” A thumb moves across the pad of his palm, fingertips pressed against the back of his hand. He blinks slowly, mind slowly returning to in the moment. His eyes are wet with unshed tears. 

The Drowning Doom’s Queen sits next to him on the ground, holding his hand in her own. Her breath is chilly against his skin. The chill of the fog somehow doesn’t out weigh the chill of her proximity. 

“Just take in one breath at a time.” She encourages softly, the warmth in her tone a strange contrast to the chill of the very sea itself clinging to her body. “Don’t rush yourself.” 

He takes a slow breath, shivering still as she squeezes his hand. After a moment her free hand settles against his back, offering soothing semi-circles against the expanse of his back. 

They sit in silence together on the ground for a long time. Beyond Ophelia offering soothing sounds, neither opt to speak. Kill Master simply shakes, awkwardly wiping at his eyes with his good hand. Tears fall, but aren’t commented upon. He cries more than he’d like to admit before he can fully calm himself. Ophelia’s steady presence a surprising comfort.

She only lets go when Kill Master slowly manages to sit back up. She helps him up onto his own two feet. Somehow she has his crutch on hand, handing it to the bassist wordlessly. He accepts with only minor fumbling on his part. His hands feeling shaky. He stands there, staring at her. 

He feels utterly tongue tied in the moment. Ophelia just smiles at him. “Walk with me.” 

She loops her arm with his free arm, slowly leading him back in the direction of his campsite. Her presence next to him feels almost surreal. All he can manage to feel in the moment is relief she isn’t peppering him with questions or fussing over him. The creak of lanterns hanging overhead swaying in the breeze and distant animal sounds are what fill the silence primarily. 

He realizes as he steals a glance, she is decidedly alive. Her chest rises and falls, he can feel her pulse beating against his own as they walk together bare arms touching. Eddie had been wrong about her. 

When they arrive at the entrance, she loosens her hold on his arm. She offers him a gentle smile. The sight of it is just as surreal as everything else. The wickedness he expects, the gentleness leaves him feeling like he’s stumbled ashore from the sea itself. 

“Get some rest.” She touches his shoulder before turning away. 

He barely has time to turn around properly before she seemingly disappears into the shifting cool fog. 

“Please-” He finds his voice finally, it cracks slightly but he still calls out. “Come back.” He reaches out, feeling like he’s going to lose his nerve if he doesn't speak now. The thought of being alone terrifies him in a way he can't articulate. 

“Kill Master?” Her voice feels like a relief. She reemerges, a sudden dark blot against the misty air.

“Can you, sit with me awhile?” He feels like a child for saying that aloud. He half expects Ophelia to roll her eyes and brush him off. It is what anyone else would do.

Instead, she nods. She walks forward, taking his hand gently again in her own. She leads him to his bed. Once he’s seated, she settles down next to him. She wordlessly holds his hand in her own, thumb stroking the pad of his palm.


	3. Can you hear the rumble?

She twirls the parasol over her head, looking up at the rain cloud forming as she walks. Kill Master walks along with Kassandra crutch and all, his gaze drawn up as well. The cloud only grows bigger as they drift along together. The sun hangs low in the sky, barely breaking through the chill that seems to live ever present in the dry ice mines. 

“Never did understand how that happened.”

The Bride laughs lightly, “Most of us don’t either, the clouds manifest as they wish.” She twirls her parasol once again sending water skittering around. He wrinkles his nose at being splashed only making Kassandra laugh again. 

“Last few times, it didn’t show up when you were at camp.” 

The painted Bride arches a brow back at the bassist, seemingly surprised he noticed at all. “I suppose, mine does form when I’m in a particular mood.” Her heeled boots crunch on gravel near the rusty tracks they walk by. 

“A good sort of mood or a bad sort of mood?” 

“It can be both.” She shrugs initially, gaze far away as she thinks. “Do you know, your peoples never came for their dead?” 

The question makes him stumble. “Never-?” It had been long enough there usually wouldn’t be enough of a body to even identify it. Out of anyone, he expected Riggnarok’s kid to care enough to come back for the fallen. Against Lionwhyte’s army he had made some point of caring for the dead. 

“Never.” She states simply back, lips settling into a frown. “The queen declared we’d bury them by the hills sides. It is only fair.” 

“M’shocked you aren’t throwing them in the sea...” He scratches his cheek awkwardly. Half wondering if its a faux pas to even say that much. Not that it’s first time he’s put his damn foot in his mouth by a long shot. 

Kassandra huffs, “Some must be given rest at least. A death by war is an ugly death, a painful death. So they must rest.” She steps across the metal track. Unworried about mine carts ever crossing her path. “Bringing one freshly from death back can lead to such unexplainable pain. The Queen didn’t want to hurt them. So they shall rest.” 

“Mighty kind of her.” He tips his hat back a little, still feeling incomplete without his sunglasses. 

“She is a compassionate queen, even if your leader would disagree with such.” Kassandra offers simply back. 

Any response he might have is forgotten as he hears familiar chittering. Janet appears through the fog, happily joining them. 

“Nice look J.” His lips curl into a smile at the very large bow having been pinned in her hair. The Frightwig (a title he only recently discovered) preens at the compliment. 

The preening just makes Kassandra giggle into a hand. “Did you get caught up with another Brood?” 

Janet chirrups loudly, pointing out other hair accessories added to her. Kill Master chuckles lowly, relaxing as they continued along. He reaches out to scratch the top of Janet’s head fondly, talking with her in chirps and clicks. Kassandra grouses jokingly about being left out. 

Only Samson running towards them looking a bit wild eyed and haggard brings their little group to a stop. 

“T-they’re coming!” 

“What-?” He glances between the undead, going still as he realizes Samson isn’t the only one arriving. Even if he doesn’t understand, Kassandra and Janet do. “I’m going to alert the Queen, stay safe!” With that the young man darts off again. 

Kassandra curses, which only makes her cloud overhead grow larger and darker in color. It crackles with thunder. 

Janet starts pushing at his good leg with aggressive chittering. 

“Woah now, what is going on!?

“The living are coming.” Kassandra states firmly, whipping around quickly to bustle back the way they came. “We need to move your camp! Hurry!” 

He tried to keep pace with her, but eventually had to slow as his ribs and leg ached. Janet chittered at his side, offering him some support. He grunted his thanks, breathing a little harder than he’d like as he limped along back to his campsite. 

By the time he and Janet arrive, Kassandra already has everything stashed into a tattered cloth bag, the magic candle in her free hand. 

“Sorry to have run like that-” She offers with an airy exhale, “I didn’t want us to be caught unawares.” 

“S’no trouble.” He waves off the apology, leaning into his crutch. “I ain’t up to full speed yet though.” 

“Here, take this. I’ll carry the blankets and everything else.” She shoves the candle into his free hand. He manages to keep a hold of that much. 

\--- 

Backstage is a mess of panicky undead all quick to take their usual places, some jumping to working out the last kinks that come with a stage battle. 

Kill Master himself ends up swept up in the chaos of it all. Kassandra plonks him down behind some sound equipment with a warning to stay in place. He doesn’t move, mostly due to being buried in blankets in Kassandra’s hurry. 

He’s aware by now what the back of the stage looks like from working with Ironheade, but still finds himself stalled out by the differences between the two factions. He keeps finding himself doing this without even meaning to. 

Grave Diggers with steady hands help with make up for Brides and vice versa. Each war paint is different for each person. Even if the color palette is decidedly dark and dreary. He’s distracted from wondering how they came up with the idea by Ophelia’s arrival. 

Her presence commands respect from her troops, all offering greetings as she passes. Some ask questions, which she answers easily. He picks out a bride in just bloomers with a clipboard and headset. She and Ophelia share a short exchange before Ophelia waves the other woman away. When he gaze lands on Kill Master, her brow quirks upwards in surprise. “Well, I didn’t expect you back here.” 

“Kassandra’s idea. She wasn’t sure where else to put me.” He shrugs awkwardly, careful of his still tender ribs. Some gestures still hurt his body more than he’d like. All it did was make him wish he had his damn bass. 

He isn’t sure what else he can even say to Ophelia, everything he comes up feels too heavy and strange in the back of his throat. All the words catch and jumble together, the best he can do is stay casual.

“Smart enough.” Ophelia flips some hair out of her eyes. The motion is casual for a woman about to go to war. “Are you going to be comfortable here?” 

“No where else I can really go.” The words still feel wrong in his mouth.

Ophelia exhales, surprising him by crouching down on his level laying a hand against his knee. Her close proximity and soft expression leaves Kill Master unable to conjure up much beyond a surprised sound. 

“You’re welcome to be part of us.” She squeezes his knee gently. “Consider this a more official offer.” 

Kill Master finds himself nodding slowly but surely. His expression must of reflected his confused surprise given the laugh it earns from Ophelia. 

She offers his knee another squeeze before she rises from her couch. Somehow she manages to make it look graceful and smooth. “Think about it.” She offers Kill Master a wave as she walks away. She disappears into a group of her warriors who cheer excitedly now at the sight of their queen. 

He simply thinks about her offer, listening to the battle wage outside. 

\--- 

Surveying the battlefield after the fight makes Kill Master feel queasy in a way he hasn’t felt since he was a kid. It isn’t anything new or unexpected. War was particularly always the same, even if the faces changed. 

Bodies lay partially buried in the mud, trampled upon or crushed entirely by the thrashing of war. Both Ironheade and Drowning Doom warriors have the same fate. Death was never picky about who she took. 

He hates the pang he feels when he sees young faces staring empty-eyed at the sky. He shouldn’t be feeling this pained over death. Not these days. 

Kassandra is one of the many covering the bodies with gauzy fabric, bundling them gently and laying flowers over them. She along with other members of her faction set to work on giving the fallen some semblance of dignity. More than Kill Master knows Eddie gives any of them these days. The thought still stings. Some paranoid part wonders if this is all the Doom tricking him, but... it’s too genuine to feel staged. The undead grieve over fallen friends, prayers are spoken to Ormagoden, to Ateulia, to The Titans in choppy tones. He knows raw grief when he sees it, he knows a real battle when he sees it. 

Kill Master limps along idly following her to some degree. He isn’t sure what else to do with himself. Kill Master finds himself leaning heavily on his crutch as he looks out in the distance. The Tour Bus tracks are hard to miss, heading back the way they came, up and around the Dry Ice Mines bend. 

He has to wonder how many time Eddie would attack the same stage and expect different results. He sags into his crutch tiredly, suddenly feeling much older than he actually was.   
Only the familiar weight of Kassandra’s hand against his back is enough to startle him from his thoughts. The undead woman offers him a smile, “You look a bit parched, doesn’t he Janet?” 

Janet comes around clicking at him. 

“Yeah, yeah.” He exhales. “Suppose we should get some water.” It’s such a flimsy excuse on their parts, but he appreciates the gesture enough to go with it. 

He limps after Janet, past the stage slowly being dismantled towards a makeshift tent further off. 

Members of the Drowning Doom have set up a variety of awkwardly built tents to offer privacy to mourners or some kind of comfort. Melodramatic wailing and weeping are decidedly hard to miss. 

Somehow he’s not surprised beer and water are out for the doom. Drunken undead is a new thing he has yet to experience, he can only guess it’ll be strange as everything else about this group. 

The sight of Ophelia standing in one of the open air tents still feels odd. She leans against a table in the tent, glass in hand. She sips at some water, smearing makeup around the rim of the delicate glass in her grasp. 

She laughs tiredly at a joke a Rat Gut makes. 

When they make eye contact, she smiles at him in a way that knocks the air out of his lungs. He nearly calls her Emilia before catching himself. 

“Didn’t think queens had breaks.” His words come out sarcastic, but that only makes Ophelia’s smile became wicked and amused in equal parts. The tired edge is there, but she’s pleased. Even if her subjects looked mildly uncertain of the exchange, she’s content to banter. 

“When you’ve won a battle, I think its earned.” She throws back casually, smearing her lipstick worse as she speaks. He could see it staining her teeth now. 

The Rat Gut in the tent plucks up another glass, and a pitcher. 

“Sure enough.” He agrees, nodding politely at the Rat Gut as a glass is pushed his way. He accepts it, holding his own drink aloft as he holds Ophelia's gaze. 

“A cheers?” Ophelia questions. "Really?" 

“To not dying.” He offers casually as he can.

Ophelia laughs now, head thrown back with tired mirth, raising her own glass now. “To life. May we continue it for as long as we can.”


	4. Can you hear the thunder?

The camp only breaks down by dawn the next day. Kill Master is roused at the last moment by Janet chattering at him loudly. He’s drawn from an alright slumber by a Frightwig jumping on his back, hair tendrils patting at his face. 

He mutters a few choice curses in her direction but does rise, dressing with only minor difficulties and stumbling out into the chilly dawn. 

Somehow he isn’t a bit surprised to see Ophelia standing tall, directing her people with simple motions and firm words. She looks almost immaculate again, if not for the wavy rumple of her hair from likely sleeping on the ground. She combs a hand through her hair half-heartedly to straighten it, but gives up when a Rat Gut and few Grave Diggers appear. 

A Reaper on horseback comes to a stop near Kill Master, a cart creaking behind the skeleton. The hooded man gestures at the cart wordlessly. Janet catches on faster and chucks blankets onto the back. Kill Master catches on, loading more of his own horde of things on there as well. He realizes with some genuine surprise pieces of his old bike are buried there. 

“Is this- all mine?” 

The Reaper nods slowly, the lack of expression would be unnerving, if not for the smudges of makeup around its skeletal face. Primarily around the mouth. The source of the makeup appears as a Grave Digger with smudged make up walks by, blowing a kiss at the Reaper who gives an unearthly nervous laugh sinking into it’s cloak. 

“Well, thanks.” Kill Master manages after a moment, a bit thrown off by the brief wordless exchange he witnessed. He opts not to comment given he has no idea what to even say. 

Janet clicks loudly, snickering best she can at the undead love birds. The Reaper flips Janet off casually, but doesn’t offer much commentary. Kill Master limps along after the cart, Janet at his side as she clicks casually. 

Before long Kassandra appears, Samson in tow with another Grave Digger Kill Master is starting to recognize as Geoffrey. An anxious fellow prone to blushing at someone making eye contact with him. Kassandra makes a point of introducing him to Amaryllis amidst the walk. The other bride is missing a good portion of her left cheek, exposing bone and teeth fairly equally. One of her arms is stripped near to bone. He realizes after a moment he does recognize her as someone who helped bring him back around the mend. She’s working on braiding her hair tightly as she walks with the group, able to converse whilst busied. 

“Odd to see one of you birds without face paint.” He finds himself saying as he realizes she’s lacking the usual personalized face paint the doom enjoyed. 

“Does it look like I need any help looking bony?” She throws back with a wink and laugh. Kassandra elbow Amaryllis playfully, the two women sharing a smile. “Ammy!” 

“Hush, you know I have to tease.” 

The two women fall into a bright animated conversation, which eventually turns into a quick kiss before Amaryllis breaks off from the group with a wave and wink. Kill Master finds himself blinking somewhat in surprise. 

Janet clicks her teeth in answer to his confusion. 

“Ah, they’re married.” He states with a tired scratch of his chin. The fact anyone is actually married or- together in the faction feels as surreal as everything else. 

Ironheade had barely been dealing with people slowly coupling up between battles. Seems some things carried over here as well. 

\---

He feels mildly guilty to watch his tent get set up for him, but trying to talk Amaryllis or Kassandra out of it is near impossible. He’d have better luck fist fighting a Titan whilst blind folded. 

“Focus on your bike- what’s left of it anyway.” Amaryllis states simply, only to be swatted at by Kassandra. “Beloved, manners!” 

He hobbles off whilst the two half argue, half build his tent. He comes to a stop at the wooden cart parked nearby, blankets folded off to the side revealing the ugly husk of his bike and bass. 

He scratches the side of his head with a frustrated sound. 

“Sorry, ole girl.” He carefully moves closer so he can reach out, stroking his fingers along what’s left. He hadn’t expected the Doom to actually dredge up the wreckage. Everything is clearer than it was last time he saw it half buried in dirt. He can only guess its Janet’s handiwork. 

He finds himself laughing weakly, wondering what the hell he’s gonna do. He’s accumulating enough crap he could live here. 

When Janet approaches, he finds himself talking about a lot of nothing over his bike. 

“Couldn’t hurt to try and rebuild the old thing eventually.” Give himself a chance to ride again, even if it’s a ride out of here, away from all this war bullshit. 

Janet chitters her agreement, bumping against his leg casually. Together the two of them begin pulling pieces of the bike out of the cart, trying to identify what goes _where_. 

\---

A carton of cigarettes are placed into his palm. Ophelia offers him a slim smile as he glances up from an idle reprieve. The afternoon vaguely rearranging pieces of his bike left him idle and unsure of what to do thereafter. 

“Hope clove cigarettes don’t disappoint.” 

He finds his heart in his throat. Her touch is chilly, it lingers even as her hand drops away. 

“After a month without anything, I’ll take it.” He says casually as he can, swallowing the strange feeling brewing somewhere inside of him. 

“Low standards, not what I expected.” She taps a finger against her lip, expression thoughtful and amused. 

He’s starting to find himself warming to the amusement, to everything about her. It feels strange. He should be wary still. 

“I lived on a mountain with a bunch of other men, my standards ain’t that high.” He pops open the carton, withdrawing a cigarette. He pats his pocket realizing he’s down one lighter. He’s on the edge of just shoving the cigarette back in the carton and giving up. 

Somehow, someway Ophelia produces an ornate metal lighter. He decides not to question how beyond the initial confusion. Not when Ophelia stands next to him with an expression that’d make lesser men sweat. She arches a brow wordlessly, flicking it alight. 

He exhales, cigarette dangling from his lips. 

“I think its about time you raised your standards.” She mused easily, bringing the lighter towards the end of the cigarette. It lights easily and Kill Master feels like he’s been struck. His voice is gone elsewhere and the world is just them in the fog. 

“I’ll be doing the rounds, if you need me. Come find me.” She states casually, placing the lighter in his slackened hand, she forces his fingers to curl around it. She pats his hand with a chilly one of her own before walking away. 

He can’t pull his gaze away from her until she’s just another figure in the misty flowing fog. He holes up in his tent the rest of the night opting to smoke in privacy and not be surprised by the Doom Queen just _appearing_.

\--- 

Finding Ophelia the next day doesn’t prove particularly hard. The Queen of The Drowning Doom makes herself known wherever she goes. 

She’s holding a court of sort with a few undead. She helps a Bride tighten a corset whilst talking to an Organist. Kill Master hangs back uncertainly, finding himself drawn to the half-heard conversation. 

“Are you certain, my queen? All of it makes me very disquieted!” The organist shifts where he floats, anxiety easy to read even in his incorporeal form. 

“Very much so.” Ophelia answers as she ties off the corset, gaze focused on the aged corset cording. “If you’re not sure about how the wheels are handling, ask Sparky. He’s been maintaining our vehicles.” She pulls back to look over the corset, patting the side. “Here you go, Tabitha.” 

“Thank you, my Queen!” The lithe bride giggles brightly, running her hands over the corset. “I thought I’d never get it properly tightened.” 

“I’m here if you need any more help.” Ophelia nods as the bride picks up her parasol and twirls away with an airy giggle. The dark-haired woman turned her gaze back to the Organist. “Is it just the wheels giving you trouble?” 

“The steering wheel seems a bit loose as well.” 

“Trust me, Sparky and Speck will help.” Ophelia mimed patting the ghost’s shoulder, trying not to go through him. “They maintain my hearse. They’ll be able to make everything better.” 

The Organist gave a rather unnecessary exhale, nodding, “Sparky and Speck shall be granted a visit of my glorious visage then! Thank you my, queen!” He bows deeply, earning a huff from the drowned woman. 

“Go get it fixed then, ask me.” She shoos him away, smiling as the ghost floats away. With the opening Kill Master opts to finally draw closer. 

He hobbles his over to her. She quirks a brow at him when she notices his approach, interested as he comes to a stop in front of her. 

“I’d like to talk to you.” 

Ophelia casually motions for him to follow after her. “Walk with me. We’ll talk.” She waits for Kill Master to lead before drifting along next to him, barely taking steps as much as gliding with the sea. 

It takes some distance of hobbling alongside her gliding before he finds his voice properly. He isn’t sure where else to even start. 

“Why are you being nice like this? You barely fucking know me.” He tips his hat back, looking at the drowned woman. “What do you get out of this?” 

Ophelia’s expression hardens at that, he can see the tension sliding in place. “You were left behind, would you have preferred to be left behind by more people?” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” He bites out, frustration building. “What is your plan here?” There has to be some motive behind the kindness. 

She comes to a stop, turning to face him now. He finds his heart hurting as he sees Emilia and Thaddeus in her so clearly. “I wanted to help you. I know _they_ want to help you.” She motions back at the camp.

“What about you? You’re- getting something out of this.” 

Ophelia narrows her eyes, “Maybe I’m getting the satisfaction of helping someone else whose been cast aside like I was?” She steps forward invading his personal space bubble. He manages not to stagger back though he wants to. “I’m better than they are. I’m going to continue being better.”

“Given you attacked us first, I’m less inclined to believe here. Eddie just was trying to make things even. You ain’t much better.” That had always been the accepted excuse amongst Ironheade troops. The doom came after them, they had to get them back. 

She places a hand flat against his chest, holding his gaze unflinching. The Queen Of The Doom, sharp, brittle and angry. She could easily cut him down with a look alone. 

“Eddie and Lita blamed me for Lars death, accused me of leading the demon emperor to them. After everything I did for them, after working to save everyone I could, I was still expendable. Still merely a tear drinker to Lita, merely expendable arm candy for Eddie. I was nothing to them.They left me to die in the wilderness. They wanted me to die alone.” She leans forward her breath chilly against his face. 

“None of you helped me. None of you stepped up to defend me, did you?” 

The question knocks the air out of him. “I-” 

“What did you say when I was gone, Kill Master? Did you even do anything?”

“We-” He fumbles for a word before falling quiet. He knows he hadn’t even done much but shrug when Ophelia never reappeared. He had avoided the rumors swirling around about her. He hadn’t even tried to figure things out for himself. He kept his head down. 

“What did you do? Tell me.” 

“...” 

“ _Nothing_.” She holds his gaze, “Just what I expected.” She pushes away with disgust, turning away from him. 

“You let Eddie lead and never question him. He could do anything and you’d thank him. What does that say about any of you? Especially when it leads to this?” She motions at the battlefield avoiding his gaze. “What does that say about you, Kill Master? What does it say about Ironheade?” She flips her hair out of her face walking away now. 

“Think about it.” She doesn't even look at him again as she walks away, leaving Kill Master where he stands.


	5. Better say your prayer cause darkness is coming

—— 

_What does it say about you, Kill Master? What does it say about Ironheade?” Her voice cuts into him like a knife being dragged down his back, the anger on her face leaving him feeling unsteady._

_“Think about it.”_

Ophelia’s words spin in his head most of the night. He has to wonder what the hell he could have said, _if_ he should have said anything. It was easier, just easier to go with the flow, to accept Eddie knew what he was doing. 

Eddie got rid of Lionwhyte, he freed people, he- he had to know what the fuck he was doing. If he had known what they were doing, why the fuck did they hide in Deaths Clutch for three months? Why didn’t they reclaim the plains eventually? 

“Fuck.” He punches his pillow in frustration before turning on his side again to try and get some semblance of sleep. Even then, his mind keeps going back to Ophelia, to her disgust and anger. He isn’t sure what the fuck to think. He feels even less sure when he awakens hours later, feeling less than rested. He lays in the blankets staring at the ceiling of his tent. 

He takes his time to actively leave what he can call ‘his’ tent. Dragging out getting dressed, muttering under his breath as he does so. He’s half tempted to just hide in the damn wilderness at this point. He didn’t sign up for all this shit when he joined the rebellion. He signed up to get rid of Lionwhyte, not get in the middle of a lovers spat. 

He has to wonder if arguing with Ophelia means his warm welcome has become decidedly cold. Getting ejected from the faction of the dead feels like a failure he’s more than able to achieve. 

“Fucking hell. Might as well get this over with.“ He adjusts his hat trying to shade his face as he steps out into the foggy morning. At best the usual suspects look up at him. People he’s started to recognize, the undead who smile when they see him. 

Kassandra walks over, chattering almost instantly. “Good morning! I hope you’ve rested well! I think I figured out this… coffee we spoke of vaguely before.” She gladly loops an arm with his, flashing him a smile and dragging him forward before he can even say much. 

“Coffee- yeah, yeah, right.” He manages feeling uncomfortably tongue tied. He stumbles along with her into the heart of the little camp. The undead flow by in easy groups, talking amongst themselves. A few nod in his direction politely. “Real… quiet today, huh?” He half expects Ophelia to pop up from around a corner and glower at him. He’s not sure if he’ll glower back or not. 

“With our Queen back at the sea, we have a free day to ourselves.” Kassandra states brightly, “Thus Coffee Quest!” 

“Coffee Quest…?”

The bride laughs, “Well, my quest of coffee learning needs a name!” 

“Quite a name you picked out.” He manages after a moment, feeling more like an awkward raptor elk learning how to walk on its own legs than a grown ass man. He’s needing the crutches less and less now, but doesn’t mean he doesn’t wobble when Kassandra takes off with him like this. She notices his fumbling and does slow down marginally. 

“I know, I’m great at it.” She says with a cheeky wink. The wink finally cracks the tension settled in his ribs, earning a dry kind of laugh from the healer. 

“Obviously. Can’t argue those facts.” There is a sense of relief finding humor with her, with anyone these days. 

“If you tried I’d hit you with my umbrella!” She says brightly back, though the threat is lackluster at best. “I’ve set up a table with a few varieties given the descriptions you gave me!“ His half loopy descriptions when in pain. Oh boy. 

Kassandra weaves him through a group of arguing Grave Diggers and Rat Guts, pulling him to a stop at a makeshift table. There are several tea cups, all looking decidedly empty. Janet stands next to it, aggressively avoiding Kassandra’s gaze. Droplets of coffee course down her neck stump into her hair. The bride gasps angrily, releasing her hold on Kill Master to stomp over to the other undead woman. 

“Janet Froello! I cannot believe you!” 

Janet gives an array of twitchy chittering, which doesn’t make Kassandra any calmer. “I said you could have a sip, not drink five cups of coffee!” 

The absurdity of the scene makes the bassist crack into laughter. “Ormagoden’s tusks-“ He wheezes loudly, shaking as the undead argue over coffee. 

—— 

He’s almost worried when Ophelia doesn’t return by night fall. Almost. The rest of the camp doesn’t seem wholly concerned, speaking easily, happily amongst themselves. They speak of new warriors to come. Kill Master shouldn’t be surprised she’s disappeared back to the sea for that. 

Doesn’t completely snub out the flicker of worry. 

He ain’t her keeper, he barely knows her. 

He doesn’t owe her shit either. He toys with the cigarettes she gave him, sighing lowly as he looks up at the odd moon. He places one between his lips before tucking the carton into the pocket of his jeans.

His mind still spins on how much of Emilia and Thaddeus he sees in her. Not surprising she takes after her parents. Not surprising the people who fussed over him when he was a dumb kid had a woman just as wild as they were. 

There is still that pang of seeing shades of Emilia’s cockiness in how Ophelia attacks Eddie. The bloodthirsty tang as she throws her head back and laughs. The way her blows land so cleanly they kill on impact. 

There is still that pang of seeing shades of Thaddeus’ cool head when Ophelia commands her troops. The secure knowledge she’s planned things out to the last detail. The fact she retains control even as things seemingly spin out of her control. 

_Thaddeus laughs lowly, wiping sweat from his brow. His dark eyes are warm and fond. “You’re growing up too fast, kiddo. This war business isn’t for you.” He smiles gently at the boy, “You should learning healing with your old man in peace time. Not like this.”_

He finds the lighter in his pocket, playing with it now, letting his fingers drift across the carvings in the metal surface. Some overly ornate carving of Ateulia herself lay under his thumb. 

Every time he looks at it, he’s reminded he hasn’t seen any real artwork of her, not since the settlements around the sea collapsed in on themselves. Respect that came with Ateulia turned to fear once the sea was unleashed on the rebellion. 

Once everyone was consumed by the sea. Ateulia became a curse, instead of a goddess. Became a threat for children who wandered away from their parents. 

He flicks the lighter open, lighting up his cigarette in a fluid motion. A motion he’s done more times than he should. 

Will he have to live through another god damn war? Another horror show of the sea swallowing everything whole? 

He takes a slow drag of his cigarette, the taste of the clove within bitter in the back of his mouth. 

_”Don’t let war break you.” Emilia states simply, never meeting his eyes. She looks haggard but refuses to sit, a guard against anything that could come near them. Her knuckles are white from her grip on her blades grips. “Once it does, you can’t come back.”_

“Who says I ain’t already broken, Emilia?” He questions the cool night air. “Who says I didn’t die with you and my parents?”

——— 

She trails her fingers along the still surface of the sea before she rises to stand. Ophelia dusts herself off vaguely, but doesn’t worry of dirt clinging to her all that much. It’ll be washed away soon enough. 

The placidness of the sea and the smell of fog hanging in the air feels more like home than anything else has. More than the plains, more than the mountains… 

Ophelia steps forward, relaxing marginally as the chill of the water welcomes her. The sea laps at her feet, curling cooly around her ankles. As it reaches her thighs to feels like a silent welcome beckoning her in. 

She walks into the sea itself, disappearing into the water with a sigh. She sinks into the loose silt underfoot, walking with comfort and ease as the sea holds onto her. 

Black tendrils drift by her, but never reach out to grab her. They know her. They respect her. 

She is the sea’s chosen. 

Ophelia shifts through the silt, motioning for the tendrils to move and pull at the dirt. She steps past one, motioning downwards for it to burrow past the rocky bottom that resettled since her last visit. 

Bodies are unearthed with each layer of dirt pulled back, they begin the float slowly to the surface. When bodies catch on stone or other bodies Ophelia reaches out to nudge them apart from one another. 

She pushes two brides apart, untangling their limbs and pushing them upwards. Ophelia watches them as the bobble in the water, being pulled up, up, up, up- 

She stumbles onto something hard with her next step. Her gaze drops downwards to a man buried so deeply no one would have ever found him. No one but her. He was layered under decades of bodies, weapons and dirt. 

An axe is clutched in his hands, settled against his chest. The edge catches the glimmer of light breaking through the black waves. 

The drowned woman crouches, settling on her knees as she touches his face with her hands. She brushes his hair out of his face. He’s well preserved, even with the gash through his chest under his weapon. 

“Wake up.” She whispers, words lost in the water. 

Yet. 

He does. 

Dark eyes slowly blink open, hazy and unseeing before settling on her face. She strokes her fingers along his cheek. 

“Won’t you join my army?” 

He smiles at her. 

He smiles at her like she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever lain eyes on. He raises a hand from his axe handle, it shakes but he takes her hand in his own. He kisses her knuckles. Ophelia gives a low surprised laugh, but doesn’t pull away. 

His words are silent, but she reads his lips. “Gladly.” 

Once he releases her hand, she rises, pulling him free from the dirt. He rises on unsteady legs, but gladly accepts her help. He walks stiffly, but loops his arm with her own as they walk across the dirt of the sea floor. 

When they emerge from the water itself, he takes a slow shaky bow. “Anything for a queen.” He breaths out. Ophelia covers her mouth with a hand, smiling brightly behind it.

“What’s your name?” 

He looks up at her without breaking the bow. “Crowley.” 

"Well, Crowley." She offers him a hand, "Lets get you fixed up, and we'll see where you land in my army." Crowley rises from the bow, his grin widening as he takes her hand. "Course, whatever you say."


	6. While you sleep in earthly delight, someone's flesh is rotting tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i like to call this chapter 'manpain' or 'Kill Master has some big emotions'.

Kill Master is only roused from his rough slumbering by the sound of talking picking up around the campsite. Voices carry in the cluster of tents much to his frustration. He groans a little in annoyance, squinting at the tent’s walls warily to gauge what time it is from the light pouring in. Its still mostly dark out, what could make everyone be awake at this hour-? Panic jolts him up as he realizes there could be a stage battle brewing. 

He lurches off of the makeshift bed, grabbing his crutch blindly as he moves to flip open his tent flap. People are running around, talking brightly amongst themselves. That does little to ease the disquiet in his chest. 

“Is there a battle-?” He questions of a passing grave digger. The undead man shakes his head, a smile spreading across his lips as he speaks. “Our queen returns!” 

“Huh.” Kill Master is half tempted to lurch back to bed, not like he wants to see Ophelia all that much, but curiosity and the rabble of the crowd makes him push past his tent. Almost makes him glad he passed out in his clothes, almost. He hobbles through the crowd proper, finding an opening to peer out at the fog. 

Ophelia returns by the first sunrise, at her back is more of the undead. More than enough to fill out any possible gaps in her ranks. It’s impressive in a way that should leave him feeling cold. Ophelia walks ahead of the crowd, her arm looped with a tall dark skinned man wearing a bowler hat. His locs bounce with each step, only mildly stifled by his hat. Kill Master finds his gaze drawn to the motion alone, if not the man’s handsome face. He and Ophelia make quite the pair together. 

Kill Master isn’t wholly sure what to think of the man whose walking in step with Ophelia. He carries himself with more grace than the other undead. When they two meet eyes, a grin that could kill spreads across the man’s lips. He raises his free hand to tip his bowler hat politely in Kill Master’s direction. 

The healer’s mouth feels a little dry and he drops his gaze uncertainly, grip tightening on the crutch. 

He only realizes Ophelia’s stopped her entourage of undead when the crowd goes quiet. She claps her hands to get everyone’s attention fully. Hell, the sound is enough for him to look up at her. He sucks in a short breath when he realizes the man next to her is still looking him over. 

“I return, with more of the sea, with a new addition who will aid our war against Ironheade!” She motions to the man, her lips pulling into a smile that is something he remembers seeing back in Bladehenge. The gentle edge to it feels at odds to the acidity of everything about her now. 

“This is Crowley, he is my general. When you cannot find me on the battlefield, you can ask him for aid or direction.” The command is clear enough the crowd murmurs their assent. 

The man, Crowley, tips his hat to the crowd politely, his lips pulling into a wide smile before he speaks, “Pleasure to be of service to the doom.” He turns his gaze to Ophelia, gently taking her hand in his own to kiss her knuckles. “To our lovely queen.” He throws his fist into the air, voice booming. 

“Long live the doom!” 

The crowd erupts into cheers, applause and laughter. Kill Master quietly looks amongst the crowd, wondering where he fit into all of this. The crowd only grows larger as those brought freshly from the sea drift forward. Kill Master finds a reason to hobble back to his tent, nodding politely to the undead he does recognize before ducking into the safety of his would be home.

\---

He makes a point to avoid this general, not out of hostility or ill will, more out of his own need for privacy. His avoidance of Ophelia is decidedly out of ill-will, not that he’s gonna say shit about it. She made her own damn bed, she can lay in for all he cares. He makes a point to be helpful where he can be when its decided camp is going to be broken down. Tents are being disassembled, supplies thrown into carts and undead are starting to pick out new spots to lay down their roots. 

He can’t exactly carry much given his leg wavers from alright to god damn terrible depending on the day. 

He walks besides Janet as they carry supplies across the camp, finding a more comfortable rhythm with her chittering and clicking than he does in actually speaking. Words feel heavy and strange in his mouth when he’s forced to actually use them. Dahlia and Kassandra showing up means he’s gotta remember how to actually say hello in a way that isn’t clicks. 

The two brides tease him somewhat over it. They take some of the supplies from him lightening up his load. He should protest but his leg thanks them for it. 

He swore he wasn’t going to get invested in them, but damned if he didn’t like hearing them laugh, seeing these people smile and hearing their gentle jokes. These people are invested in him now. 

Kill Master has to wonder why shit didn’t stay simple. If he hadn’t crashed, he could’ve easily just… 

Never met any of these people. Could have knocked them over carelessly with his bike, could have watched them be struck down. The thought feels like ice in his chest. 

Kassandra lays a hand against his shoulder, her smile bright and easy. “I know we’re moving now, but, I did make some coffee. Would you like some?” Mention of coffee makes Janet chirp with interest, but she wilts somewhat under Kassandra’s sharp gaze.

He clicks his assent finding his tongue too heavy. He swallows, “Y-yeah. Sorry.” 

“Don’t worry, dear. It’s hard to switch dialects so quickly.” She squeezes his shoulder fondly before her hand drops away. 

The ice just spreads through his ribs and he does his best to ignore it as he follows the women he’s starting to call friends of all things. Even the heat of coffee burning the back of his throat once a cup is shoved into his hands isn’t much to melt away this cold feeling. 

These people deserve better. Better than his dumb uncaring ass. 

\---

Bitterness settles with a few days as he watches the Drowning Doom settle a new camp. A camp further back from where the stage has been built the past two battles. 

He sits in his would be camp, hiding in his tent. Unwilling to do much socializing after the past few days. He rubs at his ribs tiredly. He listens to the hustle and bustle of camp. After tugging on a shirt, he forces himself up to walk around. He can’t wallow in his own tent forever. Even if it’d better in the long run, even if it means he could break away from what he’s doing here, from making himself any closer to the people here. 

The concept of running away to the wilderness only becomes more tempting with time passing. 

He hobbles around the camp on his crutch, glowering out at the fog as he turns his thoughts over in his head. He just barely avoids running into Dahlia. Just missing her leaves him feeling conflicted as all hell. He almost wants to turn back around and ask her how her day is, but he forces himself forward aimlessly. There isn’t any fighting, so he has the time to just walk. 

Just walk and let his own mind rattle around on itself. 

After some walking he stumbles to a stop, finding Samson, the Grave Digger working on digging a hole. It takes him a second to realize it is a large hole. His vision drifts and settles on fabric, he squints before the realization settles on him. Those are bodies. Bodies wrapped in swaths of black and blue fabric. Flowers have been tucked into the folds of fabric. 

“None of them ever came, huh?” The words spill from his lips before he can stop them, much less turn around and go back to his tent. 

Samson startles, but relaxes when he sees who has snuck up on him. Only for the question to settle over him. His expression is conflicted as he manages an uncertain. “ _Oh_.” 

“Ironheade didn’t come for their dead?” He questions more sharply. The ice is back, making his ribs feel frozen over and his heart ache. 

The question makes Samson’s shoulder sink, grief touching his features. He avoids the healer’s vision entirely, grip tight on his shovel. “No, no they didn’t.” 

“Fuck.” He takes off his hat, staring out at the bodies. He almost wants to unwrap the fallen, see the faces of those who died today. Some could be his men, some could be people who liked to visit him on the mountain, Razor Girls who jogged by his bike laughing as he tipped his hat at them. The few Headbangers who greeted him kindly in passing or hung around to make sure he didn’t get knocked off his bike during rough battles. 

People who left him to die on Eddie’s word. 

People left to rot on Eddie’s word. 

He throws his hat to the ground in anger, just wanting to scream at the sky. All he manages is a choked angry sob. Samson awkwardly reaches out for him, but Kill Master turns away, hobbling away as quickly as he can manage. He hears the Grave Digger call out for him, but he can’t face someone else like this.

He stumbles to a stop somewhere deeper in Dry Ice Mines. He sinks to his knees, crutch falling to the wayside, and realizes Ironheade is fucked. 

He’s fucked. Every awful choice Eddie made was just accepted. He covers his face with his hands.

He’s alone and he’s thankful just this once to have the time to process everything. His argument with Ophelia spins in his head as well. Her words are sharp slivers of ice making him feel like he’s out in the damn mountains again. 

_“You let Eddie lead and never question him. He could do anything and you’d thank him. What does that say about any of you? Especially when it leads to this?”_

He sucks in a lungful of air, feeling himself shaking uncontrollably. 

_“What does that say about you, Kill Master? What does it say about Ironheade?” She flips her hair out of her face walking away._

They had left him to die. 

They had left her to die. 

Ironheade was building up a pattern he was finding hard to refute. 

He slams a hand against the ground, digging his nails into the dirt with a pained noise. “Fuck, fuck!” Tears flood his vision entirely and all he can do is cry.

\----

At some point, he’s lost track of time. Enough so that he's run out of tears to shred and his throat is raw. He hunches into himself so bonelessly tired he wants to just lay there until he’s unable to move again. He's thrown his crutch somewhere, so getting up isn't much of an option even if he wanted to. 

“Kill Master.” He doesn’t even look up at the sound of her voice saying his damn title. He stares at the dirt blandly as his mind swirls angrily. Everything he trusted is bullshit in a way that makes him want to scream. 

Ophelia of all people had to find him. He wants to snap at her to leave, snarl for her to just fuck off and finally let him _die_. Why the fuck did the doom even bother keeping him alive? 

She doesn’t ask him questions, doesn’t push, she sinks down onto the ground with him. She gently drapes an arm over his shoulder. Her touch is cold and sinks past the fabric of his shirt, but he finds himself leaning into her. 

Damn it all, if tears don’t somehow come back. 

“I’m here with you.” She murmurs lowly, “I’m right here.” 

He finds out he’s got a few tears left to shed in him after all. He cries into her shoulder as she wordlessly holds him. They simply sit on the ground in the fog. His cheek presses against her shoulder as her fingers card through his hair.


	7. Trace One Finger Down My Spine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Please, just let me have this._
> 
> _Just this once._

For as much rumors swirled around her, Kill Master gives her the credit she doesn’t push him, or ask the cloying questions that come when someone doesn’t understand grief. Her fingers are cold against the back of his neck, drifting through the finer hairs there. He’s almost reluctant to move from her embrace, hating the aching want to just stay there. 

His eyes ache from tears, the crusty kind of hurt that comes when he’s cried himself dry. Her thumb brushes across his cheek in a gesture that he isn’t sure what to do with. The chill of her touch makes the heat and ache lessen considerably at least. He exhales slowly face finding a home against her shoulder be it briefly. 

He’s almost relieved when _she_ breaks the embrace. The relief doesn’t last very long though. Ophelia shifts in her hold, tension settling sharply in her shoulders. Her cold palm pressing against the back of his neck. Her gaze drifts from him to the fog, her expression drifting from sympathy to something cooler. 

“Can you stand?” Her question is low, surprisingly warm against the shell of his ear. The cold of her hand and warmth of her breath are a strange combination. It makes his skin prickle and shift to the tracks of Ormagoden. “Can you run?” 

“I can stand, running, not so much.” He flicks his gaze towards his thrown aside crutch. “Can’t stand without that as easily as I’d like.” 

Ophelia gives a low sound, rising with more grace than he could expect of a woman whose been sitting with him in the damn dirt. With a gesture of her hand, tendrils of the sea shimmer and shift at the edges reaching out to grab the crutch bringing it over. The crutch bobbles in the tendril’s grip just out of reach as she offers a hand to Kill Master. He accepts it, surprised when she supports his weight so easily. He’s about to reach out for the crutch only to find himself hefted up in Ophelia’s arms. She does it easily and almost carelessly he’s more than blindsided by it. 

“Fucks sake!” He sputters out, confused until Ophelia unfurls her wings. He flounders to find a place to rest his damn hands. “I can walk with the crutch!” His arms eventually loop around her neck as she cuts through the sky. The soft hairs against the back of her neck tickle his knuckles. 

“Ironheade is coming.” She breathes out lowly, uncaring about his wounded dignity. He drops his gaze downwards feeling stupefied when he realizes how close a patrol had been to them. He can vaguely pick out Eddie and Lita amongst the gaggle of Headbangers and Razor Girls. 

“The hell are they doing?” Slips out before he really thinks on it. He squints against the fog, able to hear the echo of Ironheade’s voices carrying. They were never a quiet lot, if they meant to be stealthy they lose that edge with their volume alone. He loses track of them as Ophelia flies higher and higher through the fog, heading back in the direction he staggered from. 

“That’s a good question.” Her breath smells like flowers and wine and he’s struck by how he’s being carried off by the queen of the damn undead. A woman who stepped into her parents shame, who wore that veneer of shamefulness with a sneer and an easy threat of violence. The woman cloaked in death and promises of ones undoing. 

A woman who held him as he cried, more than once at this point. He’s getting the rough idea she wouldn’t have been the only one to sit with him during a crying jag either. 

“A sneak attack is a little unfair outside of a stage battle.” She states lowly, disapproval clear in her voice. Her gaze shifts back to him, almost startling the bassist. His gaze had been drawn to the serious set of her face and the fog around them without much thought. Her dark eyes catch his and leave him a little tongue tied. “I’m going to be loud in a moment, be ready.” 

He grunts his assent, managing to press one of his shoulders against an ear, his other against her chest feeling a little too close. He’s only distracted from her warning by the soft thump of a heart. She’s dead ain’t she-? 

Ophelia’s voice carries, loud and clear. It almost makes his damn teeth rattle in his head. 

Only later on does he realize he could have just told Ophelia to go and himself been folded back into Ironheade. Only much later when he’s already settled on something different. 

Ophelia’s people rally at her call, camp breaks from idle conversations, games and mending to rushing forward. By the time he’s back on his own feet and crutch back under his hand, a stage is already being built. Ophelia squeezes his shoulder gently, leaning in to brush stray tears from his cheeks. “Stay back stage.” The command feels heavy on his shoulders and he finds himself obeying it. 

The General rushes past him, with only the briefest of glances to the stage as it comes to fruition. Kill Master is swept up by Janet, who chitters at him in worry. He barely chokes out a dismissive, “Don’t worry bout it.” Before he’s herded back stage. Kassandra tuts lowly at him, her cold hand a comfort in a way he’s started to grow too used to. 

He doesn’t deserve these people, he never has.

\---

He feels more than a little numb as he idly sits by watching people stream in and out as the battle begins. Those brought in looking worse for wear. It just solidifies the fact the doom have no healers. The undead mend each other the best they can, or rely on Ophelia far as he can tell. 

Ophelia and her General hustle by regularly talking in quick sharp tones. He never quite grabs the thread of their conversation. What snippets he hears only makes the bassist sink more into his spot on the floor backstage. 

The roar of Ironheade’s music only grows louder making his stomach lurch uncomfortably. He recognizes some of the fallen undead being brought in. Some are in pieces, some simply limp with their renewed life drained from their bodies entirely. Kassandra carries in a few fallen Frightwigs and Ratguts. She whispers a low pray to Aetulia to them, before disappearing back outside again. He only sees her in glimpses like this, Janet and Samson are about the same. 

Panic slowly forms as he worries the next one to be dragged in will be someone he knows. 

It’s only so much worse when Ophelia calls for a retreat. “Pack everything, we’re going! We are losing no one else today!” 

The General’s voice echo’s her words, urging the undead to hurry, to stay safe. 

The undead are quick to follow her orders, dismantling the stage whilst Ironheade attacks. They defend what they can, whilst the injured are carried off. The truly dead are quickly wrapped in loose fabrics and bundled besides the injured. Kill Master has to wonder if they’ll be placed in the sea or buried. Ophelia returns sans the General repeating her orders as the man with locs disappears back onto the battlefield. Ophelia remains issuing quick orders and reminders to those rushing by. 

Kassandra swoops in to grab his arm, only to be stopped by Ophelia. 

She looks to Kill Master for a moment. “Are you coming?” The question feels heavy, strange. If he stays, he’ll be taken back by Ironheade, where he should belong- yet… 

His mouth works before his brain does, “Yes.” 

Ophelia gives a firm nod and turns back to defending the stage as it falls. As he’s led away he can hear her voice carrying over the noise. There is a small part of him that finds itself worried over her. 

Kill Master finds himself stumbling along with Kassandra out of the back. Her arm looped with his own, Janet at his heels and Samson helping another Grave Digger limp along. 

“Break down camp! Hurry!” A voice calls out, and the crowd shifts, he’s almost pulled into it if not for Kassandra, Dahlia, and Janet. Samson disappears into the crowd, shovel thrown over his shoulder. 

“Is he gonna-“ He starts, voice lost in the din of conversations. Janet seems to understand his worry, chittering at him reassuringly. A strange wet hair tendril brushes across his wrist in an attempt to echo a hand touching his. Before all of this, he would have been disgusted by the feeling or attempt. 

Now, well now he finds his heart in his throat. 

_'Please, let me have this. Just this one thing.'_ He finds himself asking of Aetulia. An unfounded want he doesn't deserve, but gods, does he want it.

\---

Blood stains her teeth as she sneers at the roadie. Crowley’s weight is a comfort at her back as she draws the sea to her fingertips. Without many fans she can’t do quite what she wants to. Crowley battles off what feels like the next endless wave of the living. A man falls dead at her feet, but Eddie is openly still smirking at her. “Is that the best you have, Eddie?” 

“Shouldn’t I be askin’ you that, Ophs?” He throws back, bravado easy to read in his smirk and the unconcerned way he’s handling his axe. He twirls it in the air, stalking forward now. “Didn’t you just surrender? Kinda funny you’re talkin’ so big for the loser here.” 

“A loss of a battle isn’t the end of a war, Eddie.” She summons her guitar as she jumps back, her fingers finding the strings faster than Eddie can strike. He only realizes what she’s doing when it is too late. The solo ends and bandages wind themselves around his face. 

“Take a time out to think about it. It could help you be a little better at this.” She sneers back at him, before turning to look at Crowley and what troops of her own remain. “Go!” 

The undead all hesitate, the few stubborn brides and grave diggers who stick by. Even with her command earlier, many had refused to leave her. Crowley speaks for them. “My queen?” 

“Go! To Safety!” She commands firmly, rearing back further when Eddie’s axe comes swinging down towards her. “Go!” 

The hesitation is gone at a command, they run onto the remains of the stage, narrowly avoiding the falling debris. Once the last footfall has gone quiet she turns to Ironheade. Their music blares loudly enough she can’t hear her own thoughts, only the thrum of her own blood rushing to her ears. Her whole body hurts and she only tightens the liquid of her dress to keep her steady. 

With Eddie silenced Ironheade is a mess, one Lita is trying to wrangle. 

Eddie claws at the bandages on his face, desperation coloring his gestures as she stares out at the living who all seem to be at loss of what to do without Eddie at the helm. ( _To think, she was just as dependent on him not so long ago._ ) 

Ophelia drops a hand to pick up the edge of her skirt, and she curtsies in a slow dip. She catches Eddie’s eye and Lita’s as she rises, her voice carrying over the battlefield. “It was fun while it lasted, but ta-ta for now.” 

She unfurls her wings, cutting through the sky as the bandages that hold Eddie silent finally fall away. She can hear Eddie scrambling to shout orders and play a solo. The solo never lands upon her. 

The sound of her stage crashing carries even as she flies further afield. Ophelia hates the sting of failure, hates the way she could have found a way to win- Her mind whirls on possibilities she could have taken. 

Ophelia sucks in a short angry breath, berating herself as she flies deeper into the fog. She only lands when she finds the new base camp. Her anger fizzles and fades as the undead gather around her, worried questions and concern lain before her. 

“I’m alright, I promise.” She soothes gently back, already able to feel Crowley’s gaze on her, knowing she is _not_ fine. He saw how she was struck, he saw the way she held herself when her army left. “Let's focus on getting the camp put back together. Everyone needs rest tonight.” 

It takes some wrangling, but they do believe her. They go back to finishing set up as Crowley sidles up to her. He stands next to her silently for a moment as they watch The Doom work together. 

“Lying for their sakes?” He questions lowly arching a brow back at her. She laughs at being called out so clearly. Ophelia crosses her arms over her chest. “Maybe.” 

“Darling,” He reaches out to take her hand, kissing her knuckles fondly. Ophelia finds her lips curling into a smile. “We can’t have our queen hurt and hiding it.” He intones casually, catching her gaze. 

“I wouldn’t want to set them into a panic.” She rebukes casually, breaking from his hold to stroke her fingers against his cheek. “Now, if you’re offering your services to look me over…” She lets the sentence hang there for a moment. Crowley’s smile makes her heart flutter. 

“There isn’t anything I’d rather do.” He reaches out to loop his arm with her own, the two walking away from the crowd for now. “I set up your tent, I had a feeling you’d need some downtime.” 

“Well, aren’t you a charmer.” Ophelia leans forward to brush her lips against his cheek, the gesture is forward considerably- but she wants to enjoy herself. The way he lights up at the affection makes her soften.

_'Let me have one thing, please.'_ She asks of Aetulia as Crowley holds open the tent flap for her. She smiles playfully back at him as she walks into her own tent.

_'Let me have this.'_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [You Found My Breaking Point, Congratulations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18410603) by [callmedok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmedok/pseuds/callmedok)




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